


An Unlikely Hero

by Arbryna



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 07:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 12,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep down, Morrigan has always known that she is little more than a pawn in her mother's schemes. Twisted and pulled every which way, she hardly knows which way is forward--until she finds herself on a path she never could have imagined, with the unlikeliest of companions. </p><p>A series of drabbles reimagining Dragon Age: Origins, with Morrigan in the role of the Hero of Ferelden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There are a great many wonders in the Fade, from the mundane to the truly impressive. Morrigan has walked its ever-changing paths, seen a good many things that would amaze the most hardened cynic; an oversized talking mouse is hardly anything to get excited about.

It has, however, been a while since she has been subject to such an obvious and poorly executed attempt at demonic possession. The templars like to talk of evil and cunning and danger, of temptation that takes all of one’s will to resist; ‘tis a common practice, she has noted, among so-called ‘civilized’ people when facing the unknown. 

“Begone, demon.” After suffering in silence through Irving and Greagoir’s melodramatic speeches, playing the obedient mage as Flemeth instructed, Morrigan lacks the patience even to laugh at the creature’s poor facade of innocence. “I will not be your vessel, no matter how pitifully you beg.” 

“What?” the mouse squeaks. “I—I’m not a demon. I’m an apprentice like you! Or I _was_ —”

“Do not waste your breath. ‘Tis not the first time I have been here, and you are hardly the most clever demon I have met.” 

The mouse swells, growing and shifting until a boy stands smirking before her with a hard glint in his eye. “I thought you smelled different. You do not have the fear or uncertainty of an apprentice. But there is still much I can offer you—”

Morrigan waves her hand, cutting him off. “I have already given you my answer.” 

A deep, throaty chuckle seems to reverberate all around her; the boy’s flesh melts away to reveal the demon’s true visage, as hideous and inhuman as its voice. “Very well. I can see that I am outmatched. Beware, however. You possess power, but your arrogance will be your downfall.” 

“If I am ever inclined to take advice from a demon, I shall consider your words,” Morrigan snarks. “Now begone, and let this foolish ‘test’ be ended.”

The demon chuckles again, its voice fading as Morrigan’s surroundings dim. “True tests never end.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I am disappointed in you, Morrigan. You have been a model student since you arrived here. I would have hoped you would tell me of this scheme, rather than actively participate in it.” 

“We all must face disappointment,” Morrigan grumbles, still brooding over her own. She’s searched this tower from top to bottom; the repository was one of the few places left that could possibly house Flemeth’s grimoire. Her mother never said it in so many words, but Morrigan is certain that is why she was sent here: to reclaim the book stolen so many years ago. Now she is forced to consider the possibility that it is not here after all. 

Which is not quite as worrisome as the nagging feeling that these events are not mere chance. Jowan is too paranoid, and the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter discovered them far too easily. It reeks of manipulation, and more troubling is that it is a familiar scent. 

When Jowan snaps and resorts to blood magic, and the Grey Warden steps in to recruit her, a sickening certainty hardens in Morrigan’s gut: this is Flemeth’s doing. 

But what is her angle? What does she hope to gain, orchestrating these events? If the grimoire is Flemeth’s target, what sense is there in tearing Morrigan away before it can be found? 

Unless Flemeth has come to the same conclusion as she—that the book does not reside in this tower. Perhaps this is her way of summoning Morrigan home—and with a Grey Warden bodyguard, no less. 

She will go with this Duncan. The hut she shares with Flemeth is hardly a stone’s throw from Ostagar, and once there it should be a simple enough thing to slip away and shift. No one will pay any mind to a wild dog leaving the gates, or a raven soaring over them.

She will go to Flemeth, and seek her answers—and hope they do not destroy her in the end.


	3. Chapter 3

Blast and damnation. In a camp as large as Ostagar, one would think there would be a secluded corner somewhere that Morrigan could slip into unnoticed. Every time she thinks she’s found one, however, ‘tis mere moments before some oafish soldier blunders his way around a corner. 

Up there, however: that could be promising: stone stairs leading up to what looks to be a semi-private alcove. As she steps closer, she hears voices growing steadily more irate—and before she even has a chance to turn around, a vaguely familiar senior mage storms past her, muttering angrily to himself. 

“You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.” 

A soldier stands at the top of the stairs, smirking in a way that he probably thinks is endearing. Morrigan opens her mouth to dismiss him, but hesitates; this is no ordinary soldier. There’s a feeling in the air around him, a faint crackling that she knows all too well. He may not be wearing templar armor, but he has some of their power. Perhaps ‘tis better to tread lightly.

“Have we met?” ‘Tis difficult to keep the disdain from her tone, but Morrigan is not one to shy away from a challenge. 

“Not yet,” he answers with a dumb smile. “Are you another mage?”

No, she is a trained assassin, merely disguised in Circle robes. ‘Tis all Morrigan can do to keep from rolling her eyes.

“Wait, I know who you are! You’re Duncan’s new recruit, from the Circle of Magi.” 

Morrigan bristles. “How shockingly astute.” 

“Duncan told me about you. He spoke highly of your talents.”

Why would Duncan be discussing her with this soldier? Morrigan narrows her eyes. 

“Oh! Allow me to introduce myself; I’m Alistair, the new Grey Warden. As the junior member of the Order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.” 

Perfect. Of all the people milling about this camp, she had to run into the one she was supposed to be looking for—or rather, the one she’s been trying her best to avoid. This Joining is not a ritual she is familiar with, but it sounds permanent; and Morrigan is only staying here as long as she has to. 

“I am a grown woman, and more than capable of preparing on my own.” 

“I know, I felt the same way,” Alistair commiserates. “Unfortunately, they don’t give us much choice.”

Morrigan glances around, but quickly learns there’s no point. They are in plain view of the servants on the other end of the area, and even if they were not she is uncertain she could disable him without magic—and certainly not without drawing the attention of the entire Fereldan army. 

“We should get back to Duncan, in fact.” Alistair descends the steps, coming to a stop at Morrigan’s side. “I imagine he’s eager to get started.” 

“You go on ahead,” Morrigan says. “I’ll be along in a moment.” 

Alistair narrows his eyes, like he’s trying to figure her out. It must be painful, working what little brain power he has so hard. Then he laughs, and claps her on the shoulder. “Ha, nice try.” He starts to guide her back into the camp, slips his arm around her shoulders. “You’re not the first to want to back out, you know. Fear is perfectly normal.”

“I am not _afraid_ ,” Morrigan snaps, shrugging his arm off. “I merely wish to have a moment’s privacy before undergoing this ritual. ‘Tis a perfectly reasonable request.” 

“You’re right,” he replies sheepishly. “But I already see the others at the fire. Duncan will want to get started as soon as possible. Don’t worry, the preparation will take a little while. You’ll have time for your private moment later.” 

Morrigan scowls.


	4. Chapter 4

“Looking for something?”

The men, delicate creatures such as they are, all startle at the sound of Flemeth’s voice. Morrigan feels only relief; with her mother here, perhaps she can end this foolish Grey Warden charade at last. 

“Perhaps something that once resided in that chest?” Flemeth continues, sharp eyes boring into each recruit in turn. They settle on Morrigan with no hint of recognition, lingering pointedly as she continues. “And who are you, that you would attempt to claim what men before you have died to protect?” 

Morrigan frowns. What is her mother playing at? 

“We are Grey Wardens,” Alistair responds, puffing up with a bravado that is clearly false. “And those treaties rightfully belong to us. If you’ve done something with them—”

“Careful, boy,” Flemeth warns. “Do not make threats you cannot make good on.”

“W-we should leave,” one of the recruits—the criminal—offers shakily, his eyes wide and fixed on Flemeth’s unassuming form. “She’s—she’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is. She’ll turn us all into toads!” 

The other one, the soldier, elbows him in the ribs. “Then maybe we shouldn’t make her angry.” 

Flemeth laughs, deep and unsettling. Deceptively nimble fingers begin to work a pouch free from her belt.“Such imaginations. Before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I protected these.”

“You—” Alistair blusters, then falters. “Oh. You protected them?”

“And why not?” Flemeth answers with an airy shrug. She turns to Morrigan once more, placing the pouch deliberately in her hands. “Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them that this threat is greater than they realize.” 

“How do you know that?” Alistair asks, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Do I? Perhaps I am simply an old woman with a penchant for moldy parchments!” Flemeth laughs self-indulgently. “Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for. Scurry along then, the _four_ of you.” 

“But—” Morrigan falls silent when she meets her mother’s fathomless gaze. The order is clear: do not give the game away. “You still haven’t explained why,” she continues carefully. “Why you had the treaties in the first place.” 

Alistair crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes, I’d like to know that myself.”

Flemeth laughs again, her eyes never leaving Morrigan. “If one insists on an explanation for everything, one must get used to disappointment.” Her tone is one Morrigan recognizes: _do as you’re told_. “Besides, I’m certain you don’t want to be late for your little ceremony.” 

“How—” Alistair sputters.

“It matters not,” Morrigan interrupts, gripping the pouch of documents tighter than necessary. “The _old woman_ is correct. We do not wish to be late.” 

With a final petulant glare in her mother’s direction, Morrigan whirls around and begins the return trip to Ostagar.


	5. Chapter 5

Morrigan dreams.

‘Tis not the kind of dream she is accustomed to. She is familiar with the feel of the Fade, with its menagerie of spirits and ever-changing surroundings. If she is in the Fade now, it is a part she has never ventured into before. 

No matter how hard she tries, she cannot look away; her eyes are fixed on what looks like a dragon but _feels_ like something more, and she is filled with a discordant longing. It is not hers, this feeling—rather, it feels as though _she_ belongs to _it_. 

Most unsettling is that she does not mind. The creature bellows, sharp teeth like daggers lining its wide-open mouth, and it sounds like being summoned home. 

She wakes with the taste of bile and tainted blood on her tongue, and her pulse hammering in her veins. The longing has turned sour in her stomach, an almost painful churning that tears her in every direction at once. 

“It is finished,” Duncan says, relief bleeding into his solemn facade. “Welcome.” 

The irritation of being gawked at in the throes of a nightmare is not quite as unsettling as the growing feeling of dread in her gut, the certainty that her fate has just been irreversibly altered in ways she hasn’t begun to understand. 

What is Flemeth playing at now?


	6. Chapter 6

When Morrigan next awakes, her most immediate memories are of fire and pain. She remembers the ogre, how it tossed aside the tower guard like a child’s doll, how the guard fell to the ground in a boneless heap. She remembers Flemeth's tales of darkspawn, but she never truly expected to face them herself. 

She remembers lighting the beacon, then being swarmed with the vile creatures. Arrows piercing her flesh, inhuman snarls filling her ears. ‘Tis such a comfort to wake up to the familiar surroundings of Flemeth’s hut that she does not immediately question how she got here. 

“Ah, and the slumbering damsel awakes.” The door clicks shut behind Flemeth as she enters the room, expression neutral as she scans Morrigan from head to toe. “I was not sure you would survive.” 

Morrigan scowls. “My apologies for disappointing you, then.” 

“Watch your tongue, girl,” Flemeth snaps. “You know exactly how far insolence will get you.” 

Heat flushes Morrigan’s cheeks, an echo of past shame. “Yes, Mother.” 

“Now get out of bed, and pack a bag. You’ve a long journey ahead of you.” 

“A journey?” Morrigan narrows her eyes. “Am I going somewhere?” 

“You are a Grey Warden now, and when last I checked Ferelden was facing a Blight.”

“Surely you don’t mean—” Morrigan sputters, disbelieving.

“The rest of the wardens are gone,” Flemeth says. “Killed when the teyrn quit the field. You and your new friend are all that yet remain.” 

“My—oh, you don’t mean _Alistair_.” The thought is enough to set her teeth on edge.

“Do you know many other wardens?” Flemeth smirks. “Do not worry too much. He appears to need a great deal of direction. You’ll be in control, just as you always wanted.” 

Morrigan scoffs. As though she can be in control while her every move is being manipulated. “And how are two Grey Wardens supposed to defeat an army of darkspawn?” 

“By building an army of your own,” Flemeth replies. “Now get your things together and join us outside; I do not intend to explain this twice.”

As much as she hates it, Morrigan is helpless to refuse—and not just because of the difficulty and danger in denying her mother. That yearning she felt after the joining hasn’t faded; ‘tis like a persistent voice, quiet and constant in the back of her head. The archdemon, no doubt, and if she ever wishes another moment’s peace she has no choice but to obey.


	7. Chapter 7

Moments ago the tavern was loud and chaotic, voices rich with joy and gratitude and celebration. Morrigan didn’t _ask_ for it, mind you—she’d merely wanted to get through Lothering and on her way as quickly as possible; ‘twas not some heroic gesture to defend herself against those roaming bands of fools who thought her easy prey. 

She should have left the second they were all defeated—would have, had she not caught a glint of sunlight off of copper. Flemeth would have chided her for it, but Flemeth was not there. She’d intended to take the ring for herself, but that happened to be the moment some fool villager stumbled upon them, and immediately decided that she and Alistair had taken it upon themselves to solve every single one of their trivial problems. 

Despite her many protests, they were dragged back into the village for a celebration to honor the “heroes of Lothering”. She was forced to endure a _personal_ show of gratitude from the blasted Revered Mother herself, an indignity only made bearable by the opportunity to publicly demand the key to that qunari’s cage. The villagers had rallied in support of their heroes removing such a deadly threat from their home, leaving the arrogant priest no choice but to relent. 

‘Twas rather a relief when the soldiers marched in and accused them of treachery. Now the tavern is silent, all eyes fixed on the frozen body at Morrigan’s feet.

The Chantry sister clears her throat delicately and steps forward. “I apologize for interfering, but I couldn’t just sit by and not help.” 

That “help” consisted of forcing her nose into a conversation that had nothing to do with her, then proceeding to argue against Morrigan’s decision, despite the fact that Morrigan had repeatedly told her mind her own affairs. 

“I have as much desire for your _help_ ,” Morrigan snaps, “as I do for the gratitude of these fools—none at all. I wish simply to be left alone and allowed to leave.” 

A desperate sort of expression twists the sister’s face. “But I must go with you!” 

Morrigan scoffs. “I do not recall extending an invitation.” 

The sister composes herself, attempts a different tactic. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Leliana, a lay-sister of the Chantry here in Lothering.” She continues quickly, leaving no room for interruption. “You are Grey Wardens, are you not? Surely you must need all the help you can get to fight the darkspawn.”

“Hey, if she wants to help—” 

“Nor do I recall asking your opinion, Alistair.” Clenching her jaw, Morrigan turns to the door. “Now come along; there is much to do, and ‘tis apparently all up to the two of us.” 

Before she can actually start walking, a hand closes around her arm. Leliana moves around to stand between Morrigan and the door. “Please, you don’t understand! I had a dream, the Maker told me—”

Morrigan yanks her arm back. “Oh, _well_ , if the _Maker_ told you to join us, then we must obey,” she sneers. “I do not have time for your superstitious prattle. Unless you wish to join the soldiers at your feet I suggest you stand aside and let us leave.” 

“But I—” Leliana falters, her face falling as she realizes she cannot win. “Very well. I will do as you ask.” There is something about the sad smile on her lips that rings false; Morrigan narrows her eyes, waiting for the catch. “I will pray for your victory.” 

It’s too easy, and Morrigan knows it—but she’ll not refuse the opportunity to get as far away from this blasted village as possible.


	8. Chapter 8

The dragon appears again, every night when she is at last able to fall asleep. ‘Tis a side effect of the Joining, of being a Warden, Alistair told her—along with a ravenous hunger and a significantly shorter life span. 

Not that she asked him about any of it. Once he stopped blubbering about his precious Grey Wardens, the idiot started taking it upon himself to pester Morrigan with useless trivia about the corruption that now courses through her veins. 

‘Tis not that Morrigan is uninterested. The Taint has become irreversibly a part of her, and it disturbs her that she does not know nearly enough about it, but she would have to be in very dire straits indeed to seek out information from _Alistair_.

Tonight, the dream is different. She is not merely looking up at the archdemon—she is somehow beneath it, above it, and seeing through its eyes all at once. Its rage surrounds her, fills her, and she is simultaneously terrified and enraptured. Even as her conscious mind is aware that she is meant to kill this once noble beast, something screams in her chest not to kill it, but to follow it. 

Then all at once, the dream is torn away. Morrigan’s eyes snap open, mana flooding to her hands in defense. 

Leliana snatches her hand back from Morrigan’s shoulder, an apology on her face. “I—I am sorry. You seemed so distressed. I could not bear to leave you in such torment.”

Morrigan forces her mana back under control as she sits up, pulling her knees to her chest. “I seem to recall making it quite clear that I had no need for your assistance. A sentiment that has only been strengthened by the fact that you have apparently decided to follow anyway.” 

The sister has the surprising decency to appear sheepish. “I hoped you would give me a second chance to explain. I’m afraid I did not present my case very well.” 

“That is like saying Alistair is only mildly irritating,” Morrigan scoffs, reaching up to swipe a damp lock of hair off of her forehead. “And what further argument could you possibly devise that would make me entertain your holy quest?” 

For a moment Leliana is silent, sitting back on her heels. “I do not expect you to share my beliefs, or even to humor them.” The corner of her mouth twitches up, a hint of an insolent smirk. “But if I believe the Maker has commanded me to help you, does that not make me all the more dedicated to your quest? You cannot deny that you could use the help.” 

“I am not convinced you have help to offer,” Morrigan retorts. “Unless the Chantry has taught you how to battle darkspawn, I fail to see how you would do anything but slow me down.”

“I was not always a lay sister.” Leliana smirks openly now, perhaps smug that she has not yet been incinerated. “I can fight. And even better, I am a storyteller.”

Morrigan snorts. “How exactly does that benefit me? I am already weary of the sound of your voice. I have no interest in your stories.” 

There’s a clever glint in Leliana’s eyes. “You may not be interested, but Alistair might be.”

And if Alistair were listening to her stories, he could not also be pestering Morrigan with tales of the honor and nobility of the Grey Wardens. 

Not always a lay sister, indeed; this woman certainly knows how to manipulate a mark. “Very well,” Morrigan sighs, waving a hand in defeat. “You may see if Alistair and Sten will share their campfire. Leave me be, and I will not send you away.” 

Leliana grins, and for a sickening moment Morrigan thinks the girl is going to _hug_ her. She must think better of it, because instead she merely claps her hands together in delight. “Thank you, Morrigan. You will not regret this.” 

“I already do,” Morrigan groans, lying back on her bedroll. “Now begone, and let me sleep.” 

“Of course.” Leliana stands and slings her pack over her shoulder, meeting Morrigan’s eyes with a soft smile. “Sleep well.” 

Morrigan huffs in response, rolling onto her side away from Leliana. She is beginning to think she will never sleep well again.


	9. Chapter 9

“I still cannot believe we just left them like that.” 

Morrigan glares over her fire. “Must I remind you that the one condition under which you were allowed to stay is that you _leave me be_?” 

Leliana sighs and wrings her hands, but makes no move to return to the main camp. “Do you truly not feel the least bit guilty?”

“Is there some reason I should? ‘Tis not _I_ launching an assault on their village.”

“But we have left them to die, when we might have saved them!” 

“You are welcome to return, if you are so sure you can make a difference.” Morrigan returns to her potions; they are sure to need plenty of healing in the days to come, and she’s never had much skill with healing magic. “Meanwhile, I will be moving on to the Circle Tower as planned, where one hopes we will not be greeted by impending disaster.” 

“I…I see.” Leliana looks down, turns stiffly away. “I will go see if Alistair needs help with supper.” 

‘Tis a feeble excuse, but Morrigan is not inclined to argue. Alistair is not doing anything resembling cooking; instead, he is sulking pointedly _outside_ of his tent, occasionally casting resentful glares her way. He is not pleased with her decision, but he is enough of a cowering sheep that he did not fight her on it; this must be his feeble way of making his displeasure known. 

Unruffled, Morrigan plucks a cork out of an empty potion bottle. If she wasted time and energy seeking Alistair’s approval, they would never get anything done.


	10. Chapter 10

“Correct me if I’m wrong—”

“Each time? That would be exhausting.” 

“Ha, ha.” Alistair shoots her a weary glare. “But I’m pretty sure we told Greagoir we were coming up here to clear the tower of abominations, not to riffle through the First Enchanter’s personal belongings.” 

“That is what I told the templar, yes,” Morrigan affirms, searching the drawers of Irving’s desk. Not there. Damnation. “‘Twas not, however, the reason I came.” 

“Then tell me Morrigan,” Leliana chimes in with a curious smile, leaning back against a table. “Why is it you are here?” 

Morrigan sighs and shuts the drawer, moving to a chest over by the tables. “’Tis none of your concern.” 

It wasn’t anywhere else in the tower—thanks to Jowan’s ill-advised stunt, she’s managed to search every last inch, save for this very room. Irving was always careful to keep guards and magical wards on his quarters, so she’d never gotten the opportunity to look. 

“I disagree,” Leliana replies playfully. “We are standing here waiting for you, the least you can do is tell us why.” 

“I did not ask you to wait.” Morrigan lets the chest fall shut; nothing there, either. There’s one more chest, in the opposite corner—if it is not there, then perhaps her mother’s grimoire is truly lost. “But if you must know, I am looking for something that was stolen from my mother.” 

“Ah yes, ‘stolen’,” Alistair cracks, making sarcastic quote marks with his fingers. “Confiscated is more likely. It’s probably going to turn us all into toads or make our limbs fall off or something.” 

“Yes, I thought we could defeat the archdemon by turning into toads,” Morrigan says, absent-mindedly derisive. It’s not in here either, unless—is that? Yes, the chest should be much deeper than it appears. Her fingers find a catch, pry up the false bottom, and there it is: bound in black leather, stamped with a tree on the cover. She sits back on her heels, starts to crack open the book—

“Did you find it?” Leliana asks, peering over Morrigan’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Morrigan replies curtly. She shoves the book into her pack; she’ll have to wait until later to peruse its contents. 

“We should be moving,” Sten offers gruffly, still planted in his post at the door. “I dislike this place.” 

“Finally something we can agree on,” Morrigan says, sweeping out through the doorway.


	11. Chapter 11

Whatever Morrigan expected to find in her mother’s grimoire, ‘twas not this. 

‘Tis no book of spells, no profane detailing of arcane rituals; rather, it reads as a journal of sorts. 

And what it details…

The shiver that bites at her bare arms has little to do with the cold breeze coming off of the lake. She is more than capable of braving the elements, but her mother is altogether more formidable. 

_Mother_. A bitter laugh gets strangled in her throat. What a fool she has been, to ever think of Flemeth as such. ‘Tis certainly clear now that Morrigan has never been viewed as a daughter. 

Is this what Flemeth wanted—why she sent Morrigan to the Circle? Is she so secure in her plans that she would gloat about them so brazenly? The grimoire was never mentioned in relation to the tower, but Flemeth is far too clever to be fooled into thinking Morrigan would not put the pieces together. 

More disturbing is how her own tale deviates from those of “sisters” past—her recruitment into the Grey Wardens. If Flemeth wishes to possess Morrigan’s body, what logic is there in condemning that body to a gruesome early death? 

She thought this book would contain answers. Instead, she has a whole host of new questions. There is one thing she is sure of, however: Flemeth must die. 

The only problem is that Morrigan cannot be present when it happens; to present a prepared vessel (however incomplete) to a desperate, dying creature would be as foolish as to open herself up and invite Flemeth in. But who else could she possibly ask? Who else does she even trust?

Dry grass crunches under the quiet, cautious approach of footsteps, and Morrigan stiffens. The storyteller possesses a light-footed grace that is not sufficiently explained by cloistered life; Morrigan has taken note, but has thus far not cared enough to pry. ‘Tis at least useful as a warning of the irritating girl’s approach.

“I am sorry to intrude.” Leliana stops just across the small fire, rubs at her bare arms. “It is just so _cold_ , and I wanted to make sure you knew that my offer is still open. It would not do for you to freeze to death before you have a chance to end the Blight.”

Morrigan snorts. “I am no delicate flower, wilting at the mere whisper of frost.” And besides, after her time in the Circle, the idea of being enclosed by walls while she sleeps is unnerving at best. 

“Are you sure? It is a large enough bed, and I promise not to hog all the covers.” 

There is something in the tilt of Leliana’s head, the smile in her voice. ‘Tis gentle, easy, almost affectionate despite the nervous caution in her eyes. 

‘Tis more baffling than anything else, and Morrigan feels the tension in her muscles coil tighter. “I assure you, I am certain.” 

Leliana ducks her head. “Very well then, I will not push. I—” she pauses, studies Morrigan for a moment. “Are you all right?” 

“Of course I am,” Morrigan retorts, stiff and agitated.

Rather than take her leave, Leliana takes a few hesitant steps around the fire toward Morrigan. “Forgive me for prying, but you seem…disturbed.” 

A bitter scoff twists in her throat. Yes, disturbed. ‘Tis the right word for it. 

“Morrigan,” Leliana murmurs, settling next to Morrigan on the log, “I know that you have never thought very highly of me—”

“To say the _very_ least,” Morrigan scoffs. 

A delicate hand settles on her forearm, inquisitive blue eyes seeking out her own. “I cannot force your opinions to change, but I know there is more to you than bitterness and hostility.”

Try as she might, Morrigan can think of nothing she might have done to give that impression—or even to encourage such scrutiny. ‘Tis uncomfortable. “Did your Maker whisper that in your ear?”

“He did not need to.” Leliana smiles, her fingers tightening briefly against Morrigan’s skin. “It is there for the world to see, if they would only look.”

“And what is it you think you see?” 

“Right now, I see a troubled young woman who looks as though she could use a friend.” 

_Friend_. The girl may as well be speaking Orlesian. Still, Morrigan cannot help but remember back to the Fade, to Leliana inexplicably trusting her over the specter of her Revered Mother. Perhaps ‘tis not her _own_ trust that this task requires. 

“I…I would not know.” The admission is given with a carefully orchestrated hint of sadness, the slightest tilt of her head as she stares into the fire. “I have never had one.” 

“Truly?” Leliana gasps, eyes wide. “I am so sorry.” 

“Save your pity, I have no use for it,” Morrigan snaps, unable to help herself. She groans inwardly when Leliana’s face falls. “But there is something plaguing my mind, and perhaps…perhaps it will benefit me to talk about it.” 

Leliana smiles and squeezes Morrigan’s forearm in encouragement. “I am happy to listen.”

“‘Tis about my mother…”


	12. Chapter 12

‘Twas easy enough to convince Leliana, in the end. The full extent of Flemeth’s plan for her may yet be unknown, but what details Morrigan could present were more than enough to horrify Leliana into agreeing that killing the witch was the only logical course of action. She even surprised Morrigan by roping Alistair and Sten into it, under the guise of wiping out the darkspawn at Ostagar. Neither batted an eye when Morrigan refused to accompany them; she has made it quite clear that she holds no sentimentality for the slain. 

Far more difficult is the task before her now. Morrigan knows a great deal about patience—one does not learn to assume the shape of another species by rushing through it—but never before has she had so much on the line. 

She does not even know that they will succeed—nor that she will be safe if they do somehow manage. For all she knows, Flemeth’s power could reach her even from this distance, in which case she is only speeding along her own demise. And if they fail…

If they fail, then Flemeth will possess her anyway, and there will be no Wardens left in Ferelden to combat the Blight. 

Morrigan does not feel guilty over making such a gamble, although she does have the feeling she ought to. Alistair would certainly expect her to—demand it of her, even, or at least make the attempt. But Leliana, with her romanticized notions of nobility and self-sacrifice, did not utter a word of recrimination. There is a strange, small twist in her chest when she thinks of it, which she decisively ignores. 

The clumsy plodding of Alistair’s boots reaches Morrigan’s camp long before the man himself. When he does arrive, he scowls darkly in her direction before storming to the other side of the clearing.

“Do not mind him,” Leliana murmurs. “He is only upset that I misled him. I did not think he would be eager to help if I told him the truth.” 

She speaks of manipulation so casually, as though ‘tis no more difficult than nocking an arrow. Even more curious is the subtle weight of regret tempering the excitement in her voice; there is far more to this girl than storytelling and prayers, but right now there are more pressing matters.

“Alistair sulking is a daily occurrence,” Morrigan points out dismissively, voice tight. Her fingers curl into fists at her sides, mana racing anxiously under her skin. She clears her throat. “Were you successful?” 

Leliana’s eyes brighten, all hint of guilt fading into the excited flush of her cheeks. Morrigan’s heart stills in her chest as Leliana reaches into her bag. The tome she produces is similar in design to the one recovered in the Circle tower, but even before Morrigan’s fingers brush the worn leather she knows ‘tis different. It almost seems alive in her hands, and when she cracks it open the smell of herbs and woodsmoke is suffused with a sharp note of lyrium. 

_This_ is what she was looking for—she can feel it. These pages contain answers to at least some of the questions that have been plaguing her—perhaps even a way to escape the fate she has been condemned to. 

“I…thank you.” The words are unfamiliar on her tongue, the gratitude behind them more foreign still. She meets Leliana’s eyes warily. “You must wish something in return.” 

But Leliana only smiles, rests a warm hand against the chilled skin of Morrigan’s bicep. “I did this for you, Morrigan, not for me. I only hope it brings you some measure of peace.” 

Morrigan frowns, uncertain how to respond. “I—I shall begin study of it right away.” 

The corner of Leliana’s mouth quirks affectionately. “Good night, Morrigan. Sleep well.” 

She leaves Morrigan staring down at the large tome, apprehension quickening her blood. There are so many questions, so many possibilities—but Flemeth is dead now, or at least _for_ now, and for the first time answers are within reach.

Perhaps she can sleep a little better tonight.


	13. Chapter 13

Perhaps it would be more efficient simply to surrender to the archdemon. 

‘Twould certainly be more productive than _this_. A simple meeting with the Dalish leader quickly turned into a quest to end a centuries-long curse—and even that was muddied with lies and half-truths at every turn. After hours of werewolves, walking dead, mad hermits, acorns and talking trees, Morrigan hoped at last to finish with this nonsense by slaying the creature and retrieving its heart—but of course Alistair would not let her, and quickly recruited Leliana to his cause. 

One has to wonder the worth of these blasted treaties, if they are so difficult to enforce. At this rate, the archdemon will have destroyed half of Ferelden by the time they’ve assembled their army—and that’s assuming they manage to muster enough soldiers to warrant use of the word. 

And now, when they could already be well on their way to their next destination, Morrigan is instead waiting outside the ruin while Alistair and Leliana attempt to negotiate some kind of peace between the unnatural beasts of the forest and the elf who cursed them. 

A futile endeavor, if ever there has been one. She is unsurprised, therefore, when they return without the elf. 

“Do not look so smug,” Leliana chides with a smirk, bumping Morrigan’s shoulder as she passes. “The curse has been lifted and Zathrian has found peace at last. We saved many lives by sparing the Lady when we did.” 

Morrigan lifts an eyebrow as she tucks Flemeth’s grimoire back into her pack. “You do remember that we are at war, I trust? People have been known to die in those.” 

“That is no reason to sacrifice needlessly.” Leliana glances back, eyes sparkling earnestly. “Each life is sacred, and we must do all we can to protect as many as possible.” 

“While your idealism is touching, I have no intention of stopping to save every child and household pet we pass along the way.” 

Leliana laughs in that strange, fond way she’s developed recently. “One day, Morrigan, I will get you to admit that you care more than you let on.” 

Morrigan scoffs. “You will be waiting for quite some time, I’m afraid.” 

Something softens in Leliana’s expression, mirth fading into something complex that makes the underside of Morrigan’s skin itch. “It will be worth the wait.” 

A frown tugs at Morrigan’s mouth as Leliana skips ahead to join Alistair.


	14. Chapter 14

“I am sure you have questions.”

Morrigan glances up from her fire, a wry smirk twisting the corner of her mouth. “If you are expecting me to be surprised that you have the sort of sordid past that would invite assassins upon you, let me assure you I am not.” 

Leliana looks down, chuckles to herself. “No, I suppose not. Still, I feel I owe you an explanation.” 

“Very well,” Morrigan sighs, waving toward a stump on the other side of the fire. “If you must.” 

“I told you before that I was not always a lay sister.” Leliana sinks down onto the stump, wrings her hands anxiously. “I used to be something very different.”

“If your intent is to state the obvious, you are off to a fantastic start.” 

“If only it were as simple as that,” Leliana sighs, then gathers her nerve. “When I was in Orlais, I was trained to be a bard.”

Flemeth used to speak of Orlesian bards; their artistry in subterfuge and deceit was a common reference point in her own training of Morrigan. “Now the pieces come together,” Morrigan murmurs. 

“You know what I am talking about, then. Good. That will make this easier to explain.” She draws a shaking breath. “The woman who trained me—Marjolaine—I believe it is her that sent the assassins.” 

Something twists uncomfortably in Morrigan’s gut when she sees the firelight glint off of the tears pooling in Leliana’s eyes. She has never understood the point of crying; an outward show of weakness can hardly bring anything but trouble, and it has never made her feel the slightest bit better. 

“I take it your mentorship did not end well?” 

“She betrayed me—set me up to be arrested for her own crimes and left me to rot.” Leliana chuckles bitterly at herself. “And still I am hurt that she would try to have me killed. I should not be so surprised.” 

“Do not be too hard on yourself,” Morrigan mutters, surprising even herself. ‘Tis a most unwelcome shock, this feeling of…sympathy? Camaraderie? It pricks at the back of her neck, gropes at her innards. “’Tis often the closest to us that we can trust the least.” 

Leliana is silent, head tilted thoughtfully. Finally a small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you, Morrigan.” As quickly as it came, the smile fades. “I must admit there is another reason I came to you tonight. I…I need your help.” 

“Devised a suitable payment at last, then? My assistance in return for your own?” 

“No,” Leliana replies firmly. “I do not want you to feel as if you owe me this. I am asking for your help as a friend.” 

Morrigan snorts and chooses to ignore the word. “You wish to confront this woman, and you do not want to go alone due to the likelihood of her making another attempt on your life. Do I have the right of it?” 

“Yes. I would understand if you refused—”

“’Tis no great inconvenience,” Morrigan cuts in. “She is in Denerim, after all, and I tire of playing at diplomacy. I would just as soon kill Loghain now and have one less obstacle to contend with.” 

“I do not think it will be as simple as that,” Leliana says fondly. “But I will help you in whatever way I can. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this.” 

“Do not make more of it than it is.” Morrigan shifts, uncomfortable with the sincerity in Leliana’s eyes. “You assisted me with Flemeth, ‘tis only fair I return the favor.” 

Leliana opens her mouth to protest again, but thinks better of it. Her lips instead press together into a soft, warm smile, and she slowly rises to her feet. “Good night, Morrigan.” 

Morrigan watches her go with an uneasy lurching in her stomach, a prick in the back of her throat. This quest cannot end quickly enough.


	15. Chapter 15

‘Tis only fitting that she cannot get anywhere near Loghain. The man is so paranoid that he never leaves the castle, and the guards posted at every entrance have instructions to shoot any creature that gets too close—be it human, elf, or even bird. 

Although, given the content of some of Leliana’s stories, Morrigan supposes she would not be overly surprised if Orlais sent an army of trained hummingbirds—or something equally ridiculous—to assassinate Loghain.

The bard is slumped against the wall near the gates to the market district, a haunted air hovering about her. Alistair is blessedly nowhere in sight, no doubt still caught up in his pointless family reunion.

“You are not flogging yourself over the death of that woman, I hope.”

She peers up at Morrigan, a wan smile on her lips. “And if I am?” 

Morrigan crosses her arms. “Then you are a fool. ‘Twas a clear choice: her life or your own.” 

Leliana breathes in shakily, her fingers twisting together in front of her. “Perhaps I do not know if it is worth surviving, knowing that she is dead because of me.” 

“Worth is of no consequence,” Morrigan snorts. “Your own life is always more worthy than another’s, by simple virtue of it being your own.”

Any other time, Leliana would have chided her for her fatalistic outlook; now, she seems to lack the spirit. “Perhaps,” she sighs, voice thick. “Still, I-I loved her for years. She taught me so much, shaped how I saw the world. It hurts to realize I never really knew her.” 

It strikes Morrigan like a most unwelcome blow to the gut, how easily Leliana’s words could be her own. She did not ask to find common ground with this…this simpering girl, but sympathize she does. At a loss, she leans back against the wall, sliding down until she is slumped next to Leliana. Awkwardly, she clears her throat. “Oddly enough, I am familiar with the feeling.” 

“Oh! Of course you are,” Leliana gasps, fingers springing to her lips. Her brow furrows guiltily. “I apologize. My time with Marjolaine cannot possibly compare to your lifetime with Flemeth…Maker, you must think me terribly selfish.” 

“You are joking, are you not?” Morrigan laughs critically. “You are selfless to the point of irritation. Always prattling on about saving the innocent—as if such a creature exists.” 

A blush steals over Leliana’s cheeks, even as tears begin slowly rolling down them. “I am flattered you see me that way, but that is not all that I am. I have done terrible things—and worse, I have enjoyed doing them.” Her fingers clench into tight, trembling fists. “There is a part of me that loves how powerful it makes me feel. It invigorates me and…and that scares me.”

“How absurd,” Morrigan scoffs, “fearing one’s own nature. I am a mage, capable of untold amounts of devastation in mere moments. You do not see me cowering in fear from my power, nor castigating myself for enjoying its use. I make no apologies for what I am or the power I wield, and neither should you.”

Leliana looks over at her, eyes wet and sparkling with surprise. “I…thank you.” Her lips curve into a thoughtful, nervous smile. “Have I ever told you I really like the way you wear your hair?”

Morrigan blinks, bewildered. “What a bizarre change of subject. What does my _hair_ have to do with anything?” 

“I just thought you should know,” Leliana says, her cheeks flushing an impossibly deeper shade of red. “Simple, practical, yet still very flattering. It suits you.” 

“What a relief,” Morrigan sighs dramatically. “‘Twas tormenting me so, not knowing if you approved.” 

Leliana’s eyes narrow playfully, and she bumps her shoulder against Morrigan’s. “I see you are very bad at taking compliments.” 

Morrigan frowns. “I hardly see what merits a compliment in the first place. ’Tis not as though I put any effort into it.” 

With trembling fingers, Leliana reaches over to tuck a lock of Morrigan’s hair away from her face. All this _touching_. Is this truly how friendships function? 

“All right,” Leliana murmurs, breathing soft and quick. “How about this one: you are very beautiful, Morrigan.”

“A matter over which I have even less control—” Morrigan’s riposte falls unfinished as she realizes how much closer Leliana’s face is getting to hers. “What are you doing?” 

Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, Leliana searches Morrigan’s eyes for something that Morrigan could not begin to guess at. Her hand presses warm against the side of Morrigan’s face. “Taking a chance.” 

Then soft lips are pressed against her own, wet with the salt of tears, and a thousand things suddenly begin to make sense. The coy smiles, the casual touches—she did not interpret them as lustful, because it did not align with what she has known of lust. 

Or perhaps because there is something more demanding behind them than lust. The thought is enough to horrify Morrigan into action, pulling back sharply.

Leliana speaks before Morrigan has the chance to, eyes wide and remorseful. “I—I apologize. I should not have done that. I should—I should go. I will meet you back at camp.”

As Leliana retreats back into the markets, Morrigan slumps back in confusion. What in the world was _that_?


	16. Chapter 16

“I can’t believe you just _let_ Isolde sacrifice herself—with blood magic! That’s horrendous, even for you.” 

Alistair has almost certainly been waiting hours for this; he does not possess the nerve to countermand her decisions, so he waits until all is said and done to berate her for them.

“‘Twas a willing sacrifice,” Morrigan offers with a dismissive shrug. “Or would you have rather I killed the little boy?”

As irritating as it is to have to deal with him at all, ‘tis at least amusing to watch Alistair sputter and fumble for words. “No! But you don’t have to be so casual about it, you know? A woman just died at _your_ command.” 

“Because you are too much of a coward to make commands yourself.” Morrigan’s eyes narrow sharply, her patience waning. “And I have killed many more than that in pursuit of this quest. There was a choice to make, and I made it. I will not discuss it any further.” Whirling around, she continues along the road away from the castle. 

After a few more moments of blustering, Alistair settles on crossing his arms and glaring. “Fine. Let’s just…get on our way to Haven.”

Morrigan slows to a halt. “Haven? What in the world would possess you to think we are going there?”

“Uh…to track down Brother Genitivi? So we can find the Urn of Sacred Ashes? To cure Arl Eamon?” The fool has apparently not yet learned that speaking to her as though she is an idiot only makes him look like a bigger one. “Were you even listening at all?” 

“Oh, I was listening,” Morrigan replies, laughing at the absurdity of it. “I must have missed the part where we all agreed to waste time and energy hunting down some jar of mystical remains that may or may not cure the Arl, if in fact it actually does exist.” 

Alistair scowls, advancing on Morrigan heatedly. “Or _maybe_ you missed the part where Arl Eamon is our best chance of taking on Loghain, and that Urn is the only idea anyone’s got to cure him.” 

“Oh, _well_ ,” Morrigan feints, waving a hand dramatically. “If we _need_ it to be true, then it must be so!” 

“Stop it, both of you.” Leliana’s words are quiet, but firm enough to draw their attention. Her eyes skitter nervously over Morrigan’s face before shifting to the simpler of the two, casting an almost maternal glare in Alistair’s direction. “We will not get anywhere by tearing at each others’ throats. We will figure this out in the morning, when we’ve all had a chance to rest and calm down.” 

Leliana does not pursue when Morrigan quickens her pace, something for which she is begrudgingly grateful. Some time soon, she knows, the bard will wish to discuss what happened between them the other night—an inevitability she is desperate to avoid. 

Perhaps, with a bit of clever planning, she can at least postpone it a while longer.


	17. Chapter 17

“I wish you would reconsider.” Leliana’s fingers tangle uneasily in front of her, her brow furrowed tight with worry. “We are stronger when we are all working together as a team.” 

“A questionable assertion,” Morrigan says archly, “when one considers that two members of said team are stubbornly insistent on a fool’s errand that may very well end in their deaths. If you wish to abandon your foolish quest, you are welcome to accompany us to Orzammar.” 

The offer is a calculated risk; she is almost certain Leliana will refuse, but there is always that chance. For a moment the girl appears genuinely conflicted, and Morrigan’s heart stills in her chest. The plan is to put distance between the two of them, not force them into the close quarters of mountain caves—a notion that makes her uncomfortable enough on its own, without the possibility of being ambushed into some kind of intimate conversation. 

But she is to be spared, it appears, for Leliana ducks her head regretfully. “I cannot do that. I know in my heart that this is the right thing to do. The Maker would not lead me astray.” 

“Yes, because he has done such an admirable job thus far,” Morrigan snorts, then waves her hand dismissively. “Go then, pursue your blind faith if you must. I am perfectly capable of negotiating with the dwarves without you or Alistair there to hold my hand.” 

‘Twas the wrong thing to say—or perhaps the exact right one. The thought of physical affection leads naturally to the memory of Leliana’s fingers on her cheek, of the salty-sweet flavor of her lips. The color that rushes to Leliana’s cheeks indicates similar thoughts, but she is interrupted before she can gather her senses to speak.

“Come on, Leliana,” Alistair calls, impatient and more than a little bitter. He is not happy that Morrigan has managed to get her way. “We’ve got to get moving if we want to make it to Haven before nightfall.” 

“I will be right there,” Leliana replies, but she does not yet move. She raises her eyes, peering into Morrigan’s as though searching for the answer to a question that has not been voiced. ‘Tis clear she wishes to say more, but Alistair has taken to tapping his fingers loudly on his shield—and what she wishes to discuss will most certainly take more time than his limited patience will allow. “Are you certain you won’t take the dog?” 

Morrigan wrinkles her nose at the domesticated mutt. “I did not wish to take the dog in the first place. ‘Tis not my fault that the mongrel mistook stealing herbs from my pack as some sort of bonding experience.” 

Leliana smiles as though she knows better, which is probably true; the hound has worn Morrigan down to the point where she does not actively protest its presence, at least as long as it is not leaving mutilated carcasses in her clothing, and Leliana has unfortunately borne witness to Morrigan’s subtle attempts to slip the creature bits of food. 

“And in any event,” Morrigan continues quickly when she recognizes the fond glint in Leliana’s eyes, “should I need protection, I shall be traveling with a veritable walking statue—and the golem, besides.”

“Very well,” Leliana concedes with a giggle. “We will be on our way.” She pauses, her smile turns solemn and imploring. “Be safe, Morrigan.” 

‘Tis no mere well-wishing; it feels more like she is pleading, desperate for some sort of promise Morrigan has neither the desire nor intent to give, even if she were capable of it. 

“Yes, well. Do try not to get yourselves killed,” Morrigan replies gruffly. “Our so-called army is not so strong it can afford to lose even a pair of pious fools.” 

The way Leliana’s smile brightens at her words should disgust Morrigan; the fact that it does not—at least not entirely—is only a testament to how desperately she needs this separation. Too much time spent with these people is causing her to form ridiculous attachments that defy all sense.

Several weeks of relative solitude is surely what she needs to regain much-needed sanity.


	18. Chapter 18

If ‘twas sanity Morrigan sought, perhaps traveling into the Deep Roads was not the most intelligent course of action. 

The foul dwarf who installed himself as her guide was offensive enough, but he was at least possessed of the convenient bedtime ritual of drinking himself into a stupor. ‘Twas enough, at first, to get those precious hours of solitary study and, occasionally, sleep. 

Now Morrigan can scarcely close her eyes without wanting to retch. The grotesque means by which darkspawn reproduce is now permanently etched into her eyelids, and she can still feel a hundred grimy fingers groping at her, trying to hold her down and corrupt her in the same fashion. 

What is most disturbing is that ‘tis not so very different from what Flemeth planned for her. The journey has provided her with ample time to study the secrets of her mother’s grimoire—and the more the pieces come together, the more unsettled she becomes. 

The ritual itself fascinates her; to harness the power and soul of an Old God, to nurture and shape it with her own hands, is a temptation almost too strong to resist, regardless of the fact that Flemeth intended to take possession of her body once the child was born. 

Yet one thing troubles: nowhere does Flemeth detail how she would _control_ the child. ‘Tis not clear if it would retain any of its memories, or even that it would appear as a human child. These are powers older than even Flemeth herself; ‘tis unlikely she would put this plan in motion if she did not have every contingency covered. 

Which begs the question: was Flemeth simply being cautious, or did she predict that Morrigan would find the grimoire in the Circle, that it would lead her to have her mother killed? Was it all a part of Flemeth’s plan, vast and indecipherable?

And if so, can any of the information in the tome even be trusted?


	19. Chapter 19

Morrigan is about to explain why the fool golem is no longer with them (’tis not as though she _wished_ to fight it, but honestly, they are at war—she cannot be expected to throw away what could be a pivotal advantage for the sake of _ethics_ ) when Leliana sees the nug and gasps, clutching her hands to her chest. 

“Oh, he is darling!” Leliana coos, kneeling next to the hairless beast and inexplicably _petting_ it. She flashes Morrigan a blinding grin. “Oh, thank you so much.” 

“Do not thank me,” Morrigan sniffs. “The vermin followed us out of the mountains. I suspect it was drawn to the horrific odors coming from the dwarf’s pack.”

The dwarf in question is, fortunately, becoming better acquainted with Alistair. Good—let his irritating mannerisms be directed at someone who actually deserves them.

“Well, fine, I will not thank you then,” Leliana concedes, gratitude stubbornly sparkling in her eyes. She turns back to the nug, gathering it in her arms and stroking its bald ears. “You are still so very darling, though, my dear. I think I shall call you Schmooples.” 

Morrigan scoffs derisively. There is no reason she can think of for a person to use such a sickly sweet tone of voice, to say nothing of that cringe-worthy excuse for a name. As though the creature understands the concept of a name to begin with. 

Leliana pins her with a playful glare. “You did not get him for me, remember? So you cannot complain about my choice of name.” The beast squirms in her arms, until finally she lets it hop to the ground. Predictably, it begins snuffling its way over to the pungent dwarf. It appears the stench is not universally repulsive.

“Oh, that reminds me! I have something for you.” Leliana quickly rises to her feet, making a beeline for her tent. Taken by an inadvisable curiosity, Morrigan follows, standing outside as Leliana fetches the package. 

Whatever she expects, ‘tis not the flat, heavy parcel Leliana places in her hands. Shaking fingers pull away the wrapping, dropping it carelessly to the dirt as the gift is revealed. 

‘Tis like looking back in time. Morrigan blinks, and the face she sees in the small mirror is younger by more than a decade. 

This cannot be the same one; Morrigan watched as Flemeth cast the mirror to the floor, was forced then to clean up the shattered glass and dented metal herself as part of the lesson. The resemblance is striking, though. 

“I…do not know what to say,” Morrigan finally manages, her throat rough and tight. She vaguely remembers telling Leliana the story, for what purpose she no longer remembers, but she did not expect the bard to have heeded it so closely. She hardly knows what to make of this, let alone how to respond. 

A warm hand cradles one of her own, wrapping it more firmly around the mirror’s handle. “You do not need to say anything,” Leliana vows. “Flemeth was wrong to destroy the first one you found. We all need some small bit of light to cling to, or the darkness will swallow us whole.” 

Gratitude swells in her throat, thick and unfamiliar, and briefly she wonders if she might choke on it. Her eyes are stinging and moist, and she blinks lest she give the impression that she is _crying_. “You have my thanks,” she croaks.

“You are more than welcome,” Leliana replies, idly stroking the back of Morrigan’s hand with her thumb. She stops when she realizes what she is doing, and pulls her hand back to fidget with the studs on her armor. “May I speak with you, Morrigan? I-in private, I mean.” 

And so it has come: the moment Morrigan has spent the last month and a half trying to avoid. She could refuse to enter the bard’s tent, but she does not think a lack of privacy will prevent Leliana from having this discussion—and she would much rather not suffer it in full view of their companions.

Moving stiffly, Morrigan crawls into Leliana’s tent, claims a corner and pulls her knees to her chest. She is not about to pretend that she is having this conversation voluntarily.

Leliana settles onto her bedroll, directly across from Morrigan. She chews on her lip for a few moments before drawing breath to speak. “We are friends, you and I, are we not?” 

Morrigan snorts. “I would not go _that_ far.” 

Rather than recoil in offense, Leliana merely laughs, as though Morrigan has told a particularly endearing joke. “We _are_ friends,” she insists. “And I want you to know that I—I value that.” Her voice begins to waver, and she draws a deep breath before continuing. “I will not deny that my affection for you has perhaps gone beyond mere friendship. For a moment I allowed myself to believe that you may have felt the same. But I…I was mistaken, and I apologize.”

Silence fills the space between them, stifling in its weight. For all the time Morrigan has spent dreading this conversation, she is at a complete loss as to what comes next. She is not, in fact, even aware of what she plans to say until the words come spilling out.

“You were not…entirely mistaken,” Morrigan says, groaning inwardly at the sound of her own voice. She looks up sharply to meet Leliana’s hopeful smile with a stern glare. “Do not think me smitten, like some fool in one of your stories. I only admit I find a certain…comfort in your presence that is unexpected. And if that comfort were to take a physical form, that would not be necessarily…unwelcome.”

One would think Morrigan’s grudging admission were some grandiose profession of love, from the grin that overtakes Leliana’s face. She reins it in, cautiously scooting a bit closer. “Are you certain?”

“I am not in the habit of saying things I do not mean,” Morrigan snaps. Her pulse is pounding in her throat, heat spreading like fire across her skin. 

Leliana moves closer still, reaching Morrigan on her hands and knees. The position affords a generous view down the top of the bard’s dress, and Morrigan swallows hard at the tightening in her groin. 

‘Tis only lust, that’s all. It has been quite some time since that particular itch has been scratched, and surely she will be able to focus more clearly on her quest if she is not depriving her body of the release it craves. ‘Tis lust that sends sparks shooting under her skin when Leliana’s tongue flicks against her lips, lust that makes her grip a bit too tightly at Leliana’s hips when the girl settles across her lowered legs. 

If she does not immediately leave afterward, ‘tis only because she does not wish to endure Alistair’s juvenile snickering, or the dwarf’s lewd insinuations. And if she does not complain when Leliana persists in idly stroking at her bare skin, ‘tis only because it is a pleasant sensation and she sees no reason to deny herself. 

‘Tis only lust.


	20. Chapter 20

“You are very beautiful, you know.” 

Morrigan spares a critical glance in Leliana’s direction. “I believe you’ve broached the subject before.” 

Leliana props herself up on an elbow, holding the blanket to her chest in a laughable display of modesty. “I do not mean only physically, although you know you are very striking.” Her eyes take on a softer look, and Morrigan turns her focus firmly back to her studies. “It is more than that, though. Like just now, before I called your attention to it at least, you had the most fascinated sparkle in your eyes. You could not disguise the wonder you felt, and it showed on your face. I love—” she stops abruptly, fumbles. “I love how young you look, how free of cares.” 

“Clearly your imagination is more extensive than I thought,” Morrigan says wryly, determinedly ignoring the lurching warmth in her gut. “If I seem free of cares, ‘tis only because I do not display them for every passerby to gawk at.” 

“Very well, if you say so,” Leliana concedes unconvincingly, lying back on Morrigan’s bedroll with an alluring smile. “Then lay your cares aside for a time and come back to bed. It is late, and I am certain we will need our rest for whatever awaits us in Denerim.” 

Morrigan bristles, and does not look up from her studies. “If it is rest you desire, I believe you know where your own tent is. I would not dream of keeping you.” 

The disappointed sigh is expected, as is the grudging silence as Leliana pulls her clothes back on. Morrigan does not protest the kiss Leliana presses into her hair; ‘twould only prolong the bard’s departure, as she has learned. 

“One day, Morrigan, I hope you will finally let me in,” she says sadly, before heading back to her own tent. 

If Morrigan feels an unwelcome pang of guilt, ‘tis at least easy to ignore in favor of the thing that truly holds her attention: the vial and book she recovered from Soldier’s Peak.

The old mage’s notes are extensive, but she has been studying them almost nonstop since they left the keep, and what they contain has proved well worth the effort. This information, coupled with the potion Avernus devised, could be the key to unlocking the full potential of Flemeth’s ritual. More than that, she suspects that it could enable her to postpone her Calling as a Grey Warden, perhaps indefinitely. 

In short, what she holds in her hands right now could be exactly the answer she has been looking for, has needed so desperately. It could, quite literally, save her life—the bard’s bruised feelings are hardly a concern in comparison to _that_.


	21. Chapter 21

‘Tis hard to believe that they have finally reached the eve of battle. After all the petty bickering and demands that she solve every single problem in Ferelden at the same time, after maneuvering everything from the Deep Roads to the back alleys of Denerim, they have what might passably be called an army. 

She almost did not think it possible. Certainly not when she was standing in the midst of a chaos of shouting nobles, all insistent that their own concerns be heard first. Yet even then she managed to progress, knowing just which strings to pull to work the crowd to her favor. 

Alistair is even still in the fight, though she is not sure whether that is an asset or a hindrance. He wanted to storm off when Morrigan insisted on recruiting Loghain to the Wardens—it was logical, and she does like the irony of it—but Leliana somehow managed to talk him down. Probably spouted some drivel about honor and courage and the greater good. 

Now he and Loghain are at opposite ends of the castle, and Morrigan is standing uselessly outside the door to Leliana’s room. She has important plans for tonight, but first she needs to get this overwith. 

Leliana answers the door almost immediately, as though she’s been waiting by the door; or perhaps she was about to leave, no doubt to seek out Morrigan herself. Either way, Morrigan is left tense and uncertain, clutching the parcel tightly in her hand. 

“I…have something for you,” she says quickly, barreling into the room. After a moment’s hesitation, she thrusts the tiny package into Leliana’s hand, snatching her hand back to cross over her chest. “’Tis a ring. And before you get any foolish notions, let me explain.”

Though it is clearly difficult, Leliana forces the grin from her face and remains silent. 

“Flemeth once gave me the ring because it allowed her to find me no matter where I went—in case I was ever captured by hunters,” Morrigan explains stiffly. “I disabled its power as soon as we left the Wilds, but I…recently thought to change it. Now _I_ will be able to find whoever wears it instead.”

Cradling the small wooden ring in her fingers, Leliana peers up at Morrigan, confusion tempering her initial giddiness. “But why would you need to find me? Are we to be separated?” 

Morrigan closes her eyes, steeling herself for the inevitable. “Yes. I will be gone after the battle, and…” She hesitates, then forces herself to continue. “And I wish to know that you are safe.” 

Any other time, the confession would have Leliana melting at her feet; now, her eyes are damp and wounded, her fingers clenching around the ring. “Where are you going?” 

“It matters not,” Morrigan says brusquely. “Know only that it is somewhere that you cannot follow.”

“And who decides that?” Leliana challenges, anger rising in her voice. “You? When will you stop running, Morrigan?” 

Morrigan scoffs. “I am not _running_.” 

“Yes, you are,” Leliana contends, tearfully shaking her head. “You’re running because you’ve found something, something wonderful, and you’re too afraid to call it love.”

“What I am doing you could not begin to comprehend, let alone approve of,” Morrigan hisses, advancing on Leliana. “But since you insisted on broaching the subject, I will say this once, and then let us speak of it no more. Love is a weakness. Love is a cancer that grows inside and makes one do foolish things. Love is death. The love you dream of is something that would be more important to one than anything, even life. I know no such love, nor would I ever wish to.” 

Tears slide down Leliana’s cheeks in stunned silence as the words sink in. Trembling, she steps away from Morrigan and throws the ring back at her. It clatters to the floor as she turns her back to the door. “Then take your ring. I do not want or need your protection.” 

Numbly, Morrigan kneels to pick the ring up. She lingers at the door, torn between taking it with her and leaving it for Leliana to find when she has calmed down. In the end she leaves it behind, if only because she will not have that harrowing conversation be for nothing. 

For now, she has more important matters to attend to. As she heads down the hallway away from Leliana’s room, she passes a young soldier who blushes when his eyes linger too long on her cleavage. 

He’ll do.


	22. Chapter 22

So far, so good. Their army has taken the gates of Denerim and is already marching on the rest of the city, and while the archdemon is yet to show itself, Morrigan can feel its presence resonating in her very bones. 

Everything is going according to plan—so why is she not more pleased?

The answer, of course, is currently stitching a cut on Alistair’s cheek. Leliana keeps casting mournful glances Morrigan’s way whenever she thinks Morrigan isn’t looking; ‘tis most distracting, and she can ill afford distractions on this day of all days.

She gives in and decides to approach as Leliana is finishing up, dabbing the sutured wound with a clean cloth. Alistair rises quickly when he sees her, moving as though he’ll catch something if he gets too close. 

“I’ll let you two talk,” he sneers, shooting Morrigan a heated glare before turning and stomping away. Leliana busies herself packing up the healing supplies, staunchly avoiding Morrigan’s seeking eyes—but she does not order Morrigan to leave.

With a huff, Morrigan launches into the explanation that has been whirling in her head since last night. “Everything I said to you last night is true. I do not know love, nor do I wish to.”

Leliana laughs, bitter and humorless. “If this is your idea of an apology, Morrigan, you obviously need practice.”

“You did not let me finish.” Morrigan scowls. “I know a great many other things—some of which you have taught me,” she grudgingly admits. Her throat tightens nervously, but she forces the words out nonetheless. “I know passion, and the respect of equals. I-I know friendship, and I know trust, and were it not for you I suspect I never would have.”

When Leliana looks up, tears are streaming down her cheeks. She sets down the supplies, slowly moving to stand in front of Morrigan. For a moment, when Leliana raises her hand, Morrigan is uncertain if she means to caress her or slap her—but delicate fingers slip into her hair, palms warm against her cheeks, and then her lips are caught up in Leliana’s own.

Something wrenches in Morrigan’s chest as she pulls away. “I am still leaving,” she utters, forcing herself to meet Leliana’s eyes. “’Tis not because of you, or of…this. Things were set in motion long ago, and I must be the one to see them through now.”

Leliana sniffles and brushes back a lock of Morrigan’s hair, eyes pleading. “Can you tell me nothing?”

Morrigan swallows hard, struck by the profound desire to tell her everything. “’Tis better you do not know.”

After a moment, Leliana nods. “Very well. I trust you, Morrigan,” she says earnestly. “And I…I love you.” Before Morrigan can protest, she rushes on, dropping her hands to join tightly with Morrigan’s own. “I know you do not want to say it back, and perhaps you truly do not feel it, but I could not go into what may be our final battle without telling you.” 

Heart pounding, Morrigan searches for a reply. When she glances down, she notices for the first time that Leliana’s fingers are bare. “Did you…” she begins, unsure of what she is trying to ask.

A sheepish smile tugs at Leliana’s mouth as she reaches down the front of her armor, pulling out a chain with the small rosewood ring dangling from it. “I could not bear to leave it behind, but I did not want you to think I had forgiven you quite yet.” 

Morrigan rolls her eyes, but a horn blows before she can retort. “’Tis time, then,” she sighs, suddenly reluctant for the battle to continue. 

Mischief creeps into Leliana’s smile, tinged with a bit of sad desperation. She tugs Morrigan’s hands back to her waist. “Not until I get a proper goodbye kiss.”


	23. Chapter 23

The memory of Leliana’s kiss lingers, even when Morrigan does not have lips to speak of. She spreads her wings, shaking her feathers out as she peers down at the roof of Fort Drakon. 

It is done; the archdemon slain. She can feel its soul already, cleansed of corruption and binding to the new life inside of her. 

She does not know what the future will hold for her and this child, or how she will be changed by it. ‘Twould be unfair to let Leliana blindly follow her when she herself does not know where she is going, and unwise to allow herself to be further compromised by this…attachment she’s developed. 

These are all thoughts she has already had, decisions she has already made, yet still she lingers. ‘Tis more difficult than she expected, watching Leliana search frantically for some hint of Morrigan around the corpse of the archdemon. Alistair reaches for her, holds her in place as he speaks. 

Morrigan cannot hear his words, but she knows what they will convey. She was careful to remain in human form as she let the dragon sweep her over the side of the wall; better for everyone to think her dead, shattered on the steps of Fort Drakon among countless bodies of darkspawn and men. If they know she is alive, they will have reason to search for her.

As expected, Leliana rushes to the side of the roof, staring down at the distant ground below. Then she does something Morrigan does not expect: her hand drifts to the center of her chest, where the ring sits unseen under her armor. Her head darts around, her motions infused with a desperate sort of hope. 

With a heavy heart weighing her down, Morrigan spreads her wings and takes flight.

‘Tis better this way.


End file.
